Practice
by vigirl
Summary: Sara thinks things through, the day before she returns from her post-Bloodlines vacation.


**Category**—POV, angst

**Spoilers**—Inspired by the first episode of Season 5, so fair warning.

**Disclaimer**--CSI's characters definitely do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended. This is written entirely for personal pleasure, not profit.

**Feedback**--Yes, please.

**Archival**—Playing with Fire - Other archives, please email me first.

**Author's Notes**--There is an element in the spoilers we have for Viva Las Vegas (the premiere episode of S5) which really intrigues me. I wanted to explore it a bit. Of course, spoilers are always subject to change until we see the actual episode, so maybe something like this never happened. But if it does...anyway, hope you like it.

She fidgeted for the thousandth time, worrying the fingers of her right hand with those of her left. She could feel her listener's eyes settle on the restless movement, but then, nothing escaped notice here. If her gut wasn't tied into knots, she might have laughed at that. Might have.  
  
"You seem agitated today."  
  
She exhaled, looking over briefly in the direction of the voice before offering a silent shrug.  
  
"What's bothering you?"  
  
Her laugh seemed strangled as her eyes shifted back and held.  
  
"How about...I go back to work tomorrow and...I still have no idea what to say."  
  
The counselor returned her anxious look with quiet calm, nodding slightly. "Well, what do you want to say?"  
  
She hated the rhetorical part of this. The woman knew damn well what she wanted to say to him; it had been the near-obsessive subject of their sessions practically since she started. Once the "Do I have a problem with alcohol" issue was dealt with—she didn't—her issues with him had taken center stage and never left. It embarrassed her at first, being probed about Grissom and their...situation. But soon enough, after gentle but persistent prodding, she had finally said some things, one halting little explanation at a time. She would never have guessed that sharing her most secret feelings with a total stranger could come as such a relief. Finally, someone who wouldn't judge, or think less of her for being so much in love with a man who gave her so little.  
  
Working the knuckle of her index finger like a bead on a rosary, Sara exhaled once more.  
  
"I want to say..."  
  
Her eyes darted away. Why was it so hard to speak honestly about him? Even to someone who did not know him, and never would?  
  
"I want to say... 'I've messed up, but so have you.' I mean, if he didn't—if he treated me like a colleague, fairly and without...punishing me for my feelings and my admittedly stupid efforts to get him to love me, I could learn to live with it." She looked up, searching for reassurance. "I could adjust, if he would. But he won't...He won't let the past be the past, no matter how much I try to. He keeps...he keeps making me pay for-- "  
  
No one ever warned you about therapists. They could never, ever let a silence go.  
  
"Making you pay for what?"  
  
"For having loved him!" The words flew out, tinged by anger. "...for still loving him, despite all of his...bullshit!"  
  
"I know he knows I still feel the same way." Her voice sank, the anger fading. "But he doesn't have to keep holding it against me. I thought, stupid me, that if I just stopped chasing him, stopped trying to get him to do something, if I just forced myself to let it go and focus on work, he would let me. I thought he'd be glad that I'd finally...given up."  
  
"But he wasn't?"  
  
"I don't know what he thought. I just know that I kept trying to put this all behind us, and he--" Her voice broke, ever so slightly. "He wouldn't let me. He won't let me. He just keeps making me pay."  
  
"I'm not sure I understand." The counselor paused, her voice thoughtful. "Can you explain it to me?"  
  
"You keep asking me that," Sara sighed, shaking her head. "I don't know how to explain it, but... It's like our whole...relationship...can be split into before, and after. Before I crossed the line between us, he treated me like an equal. He let me work cases with him, whether to teach me or just because he could tell the victim really mattered to me. I actually thought he enjoyed having me in his little world, even if just as a friend. Back then, when I spoke up and challenged him about things, he would talk to me. He would try to explain his reasoning about case priorities and keeping perspective.... I mean, this is a man who once took the time to connect what we needed to do to find better evidence with what the first forensic scientists did from 13th century China and 19th century France, just to help me understand his way of working a case that meant a lot to me wasn't all that far from mine...To show me that emotions and empathy aside, as two scientists, we did share the same goal."  
  
The memory that had lent a light to her face faded as she continued. "But that was before I let him see how I felt. After I did, he never took the time to just...talk...to me like that again. It was like he had to think about how to act around me. So, when that felt like too much trouble, he simply ignored me. Worse, he went out of his way to...knock me down a few pegs, you know, to make sure I knew my place. Which was not out getting a life, but being at his beck and call...not arguing for cases I felt strongly about, but being his obedient CSI. He is my boss, and he does get to decide if I'm good enough, smart enough...humble enough. He is in control, of my career, of whatever there could be between us. I know that.  
  
She drew a shaky breath. "He just never seemed to rub my face in it before."  
  
Despite the pain, she tried to smile, as though none of it mattered anyway. "So...that's what feels like punishment. Before I made a fool of myself, he at least treated me like a friend, someone worthy of his respect. Now he mostly treats me like someone who needs to be held back, kept in check. Someone who 'wants' things too much, who disqualifies herself getting the things she wants because she has the nerve to say it out loud..."  
  
The other woman's lips began to move, but Sara did not wait.  
  
"I know, I know. Why would he do that?"  
  
Mangling her slim fingers yet again, she shook her head. "I have no idea."  
  
"Don't you?"  
  
Correction, she thought, this was the part she hated most. No stone left unturned, no assertion left unchallenged. No hiding in plain sight.  
  
"No," she answered, carefully, "I don't."  
  
"I think you do, Sara. You've said before that you want to move on, get past the feelings and just do your work. You've even said that to him--in a roundabout way, admittedly. But still, in that conversation you described, the one where the two of you reenacted the way a victim was held down until she just 'gave up,' you said that. That was your way of telling him you had stopped the pursuit, the flirting, the waiting. After that point, you pretty much pulled back from him, didn't you?"  
  
She had.  
  
"Yet, from what you've described, the moments of tension, even hostility... In particular, in light of the promotion you lost out on and the strange reason he gave for his decision, it seems like he's still holding on to something, still caught up in something related to you. Some image of you, some notion of what you felt, some fear of what you still feel." The counselor tilted her head. "Or...."  
  
Sara wondered why the tiredness always hit her at this point. Whenever their sessions turned to considerations of Grissom's motives, whatever energy she possessed simply fled. She had spent the better part of four years trying to understand him. A screwed up life and an even more screwed up career were all she had to show for it. The realization, when she could bear to face it, wore her to the bone.  
  
"Or," the soft voice continued, bringing her back to the moment. "Some notion of what he felt. Some fear of what he still feels."  
  
The moisture rose in an instant, despite the kindness she saw in the woman's eyes, or maybe, because of it. "Even if that were true...what am I supposed to do? To say? I can't even deal with any of that anymore. I just can't."  
  
She released her fingers just long enough to brush at the first drops beneath her lashes. "...All I can do is deal with my life. My work. The things I can control. Not the things I can't."  
  
The older woman let her patient cry then, giving her time to press her palms to her face and turn her head away. She could tell that Sara rarely gave herself license to do such a simple, human thing very often. If her office, so carefully arranged to soothe with its dark blues, soft yellows and windows opened to light and air and sounds of life, had become the only place where such license were possible, well, there was nothing wrong with that.  
  
After a few moments, she pressed her again. "Exactly, Sara. And what can you control?"  
  
Even amid her tears, Sara managed to smile a little. The recitation had become a mantra.  
  
"I can only control myself, my reactions, my decisions. Whether I stick it out and try to get past this, or whether I don't. Whether I keep waiting, or whether I stop."  
  
"But...?"  
  
She took a breath. "But I need him to let me do that. To let things be normal, as if whatever happened, or didn't happen...really is in the past. To let us just be friends, not as good as we used to be, but...friends. Friends who can work together and act like a normal supervisor and...." She floundered for a moment; 'employee' never seemed to quite fit. "...CSI."  
  
"Sounds like you do know what you want to say."  
  
The laugh, fragile, rueful, tumbled out slowly. "If only it were that simple."  
  
She tried to explain what it was like. "I almost wish you could see just how...intimidating...he can be. He has this way of staring back at me every time I try to talk to him, with this look of utter confusion and...'Did she just say what I think she said?'...spread across his face. He makes me feel like a fool."  
  
"You're not a fool. But if that's what it's like to talk to him, practice. Practice saying it aloud at home, or in your car. Say it in whatever words come most easily, over and over, until it feels natural. Then, go find him, go to his office and just say it."  
  
When she lifted her gaze, still blurred with tears, she saw the small smile that she had come to appreciate, even in such a brief time.  
  
She could do this.  
  
She could.  
  
For once in her life, with him, she could. 

(Fin)


End file.
